Deja Vu
by flashpenguin
Summary: My alternate take on how the series may end. Can be read with or without "No Place Like Home". ***WARNING! TISSUES MAY BE REQUIRED! WARNING!*** COMPLETE!


_I wrote "No Place Like Home" because that is the way I want the show to end. Unfortunately, after watching "Lost" and "Alias", I don't think JJ Abrams and Jonah Nolan are going to wrap things up that nice and sweet. So I tried to get into their minds and write the ending episode from their point of view. That said, I think (and I would bet handmade afghans) that this is going to be the way they are going to go._

_***WARNING! MAY NEED TISSUES! WARNING!***_

_Not song inspired, nor is it inspired by JC's movie of the same title. I just thought it was perfect for a title, that's all._

* * *

**Déjà vu**

As the subway train sped down the track thru the darkened tunnel, a lone figure sat by himself on the bench and tried to figure out where the hell he fit in life. Everything he had ever thought he'd wanted was gone. The life he thought he deserved was over. The people he trusted had betrayed him. And the person he loved was gone…forever.

He didn't want to think about how he had been an idiot. No, that would be too easy.

"_Just tell me to stay…and I will."_

Her voice echoed in his head all the time. When he closed his eyes, she was there before him with tears in her eyes begging him to stay. When he opened his eyes, she was in every person who passed him on the streets. He felt her touch and smelled her perfume, but she was no where to be seen.

"_I hate to tell you this. But Jessica died."_

Months later and dozens of bottles of whiskey, the pain of those words still cut him to the quick and squeezed his heart so painfully he thought he was going to die. Yet, here he was still breathing and living…if you could call going thru the paces as living. He was a bum living on a prayer.

He gave a slight snort of disgust. Prayer. What a joke, he thought to himself without any feeling. Prayer was for those who still believed that there was a god. Hell, he'd given up on God so long ago that it was useless to believe that there was something stronger out there controlling things. Besides, he wondered for the millionth time, if there was a god, why did he let her die? More than that, why did He let him live?

"_You just happened to be in the same town as your ex?"_

What possessed him to think that he could have waltzed back into her life and have her drop at his feet? Had he really thought that he could have taken her from the husband she supposedly loved and chosen over him? _Eh,_ he chastised himself, _you didn't even try._

No, he hadn't. And for his lack of courage, she had paid the ultimate price: Her life. All because he had been unsure about his feelings and chickened out instead of grabbing the brass ring. His one chance at happiness was gone and it was never coming back.

But he didn't care. Not anymore. Hell, the desire to feel happy was no longer nibbling at him - it had given up on a loser like him. Hell, even Death didn't want to claim his sorry, worthless ass. Death was a reward for a life well lived or an escape. For him, it would be neither. And lo, he was cursed to walk the earth alone.

"_I'm in Mexico with Cindy."_

Mexico. The last good moment of his life. He played that weekend over and over until he could no longer tell fantasy from reality. He replayed the lovemaking and kissing. He traced her body in the air until it was permanent. And he heard the tears in her voice as she begged him not to go back. But his loyalty was to his country and uniform, first. Besides, he could die and he couldn't make her a widow. She deserved better.

That's what he kept telling himself. Every single day since he had walked out of her life, he told himself that they weren't meant to be and she deserved better. _Liar!_ His conscience kicked at him furiously. _You wanted her back that day in the airport. You wanted _her_ to tell _you_ to stay. But she didn't._

No, she hadn't.

But it didn't matter any more. She was gone - a victim of his selfishness and indecision - and buried in a lonely grave, while he roamed the earth looking for an escape. He was never going to get a second chance at happiness. No, he didn't deserve one single blessing from above, he conceded in defeat.

_But at least you put the bastard where he can never hurt anyone again._

The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips. At least something good came from Jessica's death. No one would ever find her killer - no matter how much they searched. It was hard to find someone who had been sent straight to hell.

Uncapping the bottle, he took a long swig of the potent amber liquid and grimaced as it burned a path down his throat. His stomach rumbled in protest. He should eat something, he shrugged with indifference. But he wasn't hungry. At least, not for food.

He recapped the bottle and closed his eyes. Memories of the past sped by to taunt him for all he had lost.

"_What did they do?"_

"_Who cares."_

"_Are you telling me to kill my partner?"_

"_The CIA cleans up its own mess."_

Every person he ever killed - right or wrong - flashed behind his eyes and taunted him. He gripped the bottle tighter. All his sins came back to tease and torment him. The voices of the past screamed in his head.

And he wished for death.

The doors of the train compartment opened and a half dozen wannabe gangsters traipsed in. He tried to ignore them, but the more he tried, the more boisterous they became. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the calm plateau that was far away from reality. He was almost there, when he felt a hand grab his. Automatically he went on the defense.

"Did you bring enough for everyone?" Anton, the leader of the gang, taunted and tried to grab his bottle - his lifeline. Military training kicked in and he pulled back.

"Someone needs to teach you about sharing," Anton boasted with more bravado than what was in his eyes. He was nothing more than a bully with a gun - a scared kid who really didn't know the first thing about survival on the streets. Perhaps if he had that experience, Anton would have known better than to take something that didn't belong to him. Perhaps he would have known better than to pick a fight with an ex-Army Ranger who had killed more men than Anton could count in a week. Perhaps he would have turned and walked away.

At any other time of his life, he would have let the punk have the bottle and written it off as a good deed. Or maybe he would have welcomed the beat down and hoped they kicked him hard enough in head to put him out of his misery. After all, they were armed and all he had was a death wish on his side.

But tonight…no, he couldn't let this slide. They were armed and determined to put on a show, but he was past the point of caring. Plus, they tried to steal from him. Even if a bullet got him, he was going to teach the first rule of street survival: Don't take what doesn't belong to you.

He knew the moment he pushed Anton's hand away that it had begun. There was no stopping the rage that bubbled to the surface and then exploded. He didn't see the faces of teenage punks trying to earn street cred. He saw the enemy, the repressor, the one who put him where he was now: Himself. He let his fists fly and his feet kick as he unleashed all of his hurt and anguish.

Ten seconds later it was over and the bodies lay on the dirty floor of the subway train. He should be relishing in victory or running for cover. But he couldn't. The moans and groans of agony reached his ears and caused the pain in his head to sharpen and expand. Grabbing the pole, he tried to right himself, but the world was spinning out of control. The pain in his head burned then seared so red hot that he saw bright stars dance before his eyes.

Sick to his stomach, he fell to his knees. The blood pounded like a drum in his ears and his heart raced so fast it threatened to jump out of his chest. Frantically he tried to pull the collar of his coat down, but it didn't help; he couldn't breathe.

The bottle fell to the floor. The sound of glass breaking barely registered as he fell to the ground and the stars were replaced with black. Slowly it dawned on him that he was dying. Death had finally come to claim him - albeit he was dying on a filthy floor of a New York subway train compartment. The irony was such that he almost laughed.

He forced his eyes open and tried to look for the white light everyone said they saw as the end approached. But he saw nothing. No light. No visitors. No one to guide him home. _Home!_ He never had a real home - at least one he could claim as his own. He wanted to weep.

He thought he heard voices and tried to turn his head. He wanted to tell them to leave him alone. After all he had been through, didn't he have the right to die in peace? He tried to open his mouth and speak, but something plastic was placed over his face. He knew the smell the moment it hit his face: Oxygen. He struggled to break free, but strong arms held him down. And suddenly, just like that, the fight was leaving his body.

"Hold on," a sweet dulcet toned voice told him. He felt her hand grab his and hold tight. "Just hold on."

Forcing his eyes open, he used the last bit of energy to look into the face of the beautiful angel who was holding on to him and feeding encouragement. Her words made no sense to a brain that was shutting down, but he heard her tone. God, what he would give to get to know her better, he thought to himself. At least he had one good memory to take with him on his long road to hell.

"We're losing him!" an EMT shouted out. The sound of material ripping and people frantically trying to bring back the man on the gurney fill the subway platform. The whining sound of the defibrillator sounded ominous before the jolt of electricity was applied. Again. Then once more.

Then they called TOD.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Joss Carter looked at the group of young men who were sitting on the platform bench. Bruised, bloodied, and handcuffed, she almost felt sorry for them. Then she remembered the homeless man with the piercing blue eyes who held on to her hand as though it was a life-line. It had been pure luck that she had decided to take the subway and was able to phone in the call for help - a call that had been, in all honesty, too late to make a difference.

"What are we going to do with them?" a patrolman asked with a nod toward the boys.

"Book 'em. Then hit them with everything we got." Joss didn't miss the way the heads hung in shame as the truth slowly dawned on them. Right or wrong, they were guilty of manslaughter. And she was going to make them pay.

"What about the guy who…?" the patrolman asked.

Joss weighed her response. "I'll take care of it."

"Hell of a night."

"Yeah," she answered vaguely. There was no reason to elaborate.

"You headin' home, detective?"

"Gotta see my kid." The thought made her smile despite what she had just seen. "Hey!" she called out to the officer as he walked away. "Did he have a name?"

The officer thought for a moment. "No," he answered with a shrug. "Why?"

"Just wondering. Thought maybe someone might miss him."

"No I.D. Just another homeless guy without a name."

"Sad." And it was. More than she could understand. No one should ever die alone and unwanted.

"Don't look so down, detective," the officer consoled, "you can't save them all."

Joss looked as the body of the nameless homeless man was carefully placed in a black body bag and zipped up.

"_It's a long war. And you're all alone."_

"Guess you're right," she agreed.

One more look at the gurney. She sighed.

Then she turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction toward home.

_**The End.**_


End file.
